How should I think of thee but with delight?
How should I greet thy face but with a smile?
And yet dark tears within my heart defile
The dreams of thee that I would have so bright.
If thou shouldst come and end this lonely while,
These leaden hours of the sleepless night,
Still should I fear to show thee what I write,
Lest I repent in vain, and thou revile.
Yet couldst thou read these scriptures of my heart,
Graven in passion with no base control,
For one brief moment, then, they might impart
Some almost worthy offering from my soul.
I write for thee, and cannot let thee read,
Thus love denies itself its utmost need.